Ha! what art thou? Call for the keeper there,
And thrust him out of doors, or lock me up.
Mrs Fos. O, 'tis your son, sir!
O. Fos. I know him not: [Robert kneels.
I am no king, unless of scorn and woe;
Why kneel'st thou, then? Why dost thou mock me so?
Rob. O my dear father, hither am I come,
Not like a threat'ning storm t' increase your wrack,
For I would take all sorrows from your back,
To lay them all on my own.
O. Fos. Rise, mischief, rise! Away, and get thee gone!
Rob. O, if I be thus hateful to your eye,
I will depart, and wish I soon may die;
Yet let your blessing, sir, but fall on me.
O. Fos. My heart still hates thee.
Mrs Fos. Sweet husband!
O. Fos. Get you both gone!
That misery takes some rest that dwells alone;
Away, thou villain!
Rob. Heaven can tell,
Ache but your finger, I, to make it well,
Would cut my hand off.